


Sails Set Wing to Wing

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Admiral Samuel Tyler faces the Renegade Admirale Gene Hunt. This encounter will change both their lives, forever.</p>
<p>
  <i>For that was what Sam considered his opponent to be: A pirate. The man pointing his sabre at him was none other than Gene Hunt, the Renegade Admiral. He was practically a legend among the common people, countless stories romanticizing his motives and deeds, but Sam saw him for what he was – a deserter driven by ulterior reasons such as greed and cowardice. Long had he striven to confront Hunt, to put an end to his shenanigans.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this because the Life on Mars-fandom seriously needs more pirates, in my opinion. I love pirates forever and ever.

_Sam_

 

„Yield.“

 

The storm was howling all around them, waves crashing against the ship with frightening force. Though the sabre, pointed at his chest, wasn't actually touching him, Sam still thought he could feel the icy steel poking his skin, slowly working its way to his heart.

 

“Why should I?” He was surprised by how calm his voice still sounded, despite the dire situation. Standing upright was hard enough considering the way the ship was rocking, and having lost blood from several cut wounds wasn't helping in the slightest.

 

His opponent snorted. “Because it's either that, or pay Davy Jones a permanent visit, sunshine.”

 

Sam's eyes narrowed. What interest could this man have in him, Admiral Samuel Tyler of Her Majesty's Royal Navy? It was widely known that he was one of the most diligent, successful, and some even said ruthless admirals the fleet had ever seen. To think that he, absolutely true to the law, would join a pirate crew at sword point, was folly.

 

For that was what Sam considered his opponent to be: A pirate. The man pointing his sabre at him was none other than Gene Hunt, the Renegade Admiral. He was practically a legend among the common people, countless stories romanticizing his motives and deeds, but Sam saw him for what he was – a deserter driven by ulterior reasons such as greed and cowardice. Long had he striven to confront Hunt, to put an end to his shenanigans. But now that the moment had come, Sam was endlessly frustrated to realise he hadn't stood a chance.

 

“I don't need your mercy,” he spat.

 

Hunt looked at him without blinking, his face betraying no emotion.

 

“But ye do. An' in any case, I'd hate t'waste good manpower.”

 

Sam couldn't remember ever feeling this much contempt before in his life. He'd be damned if he would so much as consider joining Hunt's crew in order to save his own life. Before he could say something, though, the man continued, “ 'course, it'd also save your crew from an intimate encounter with the local sharks 'round 'ere.”

 

This made Sam listen up. He had no wish to endanger his men. And yet... He squared his shoulders and raised his chin slightly, and saw Hunt unconsciously mirroring the gesture.

 

“I want a duel. I win, you yield. You win, I join your crew. My men will be spared.” It was a gamble, admittedly, but Sam didn't have that much to lose any more.

 

After a moment of surprise, Hunt gave another snort. “You've already lost, matey.”

 

“You launched a surprise attack, I had no chance to defend myself!” Sam retorted, barely able to contain his anger. “I demand a proper duel, sword to sword, no dirty tricks.”

 

A particularly strong wave crashing into the ship threatened to throw Sam off balance, but he kept his eyes trained on Hunt, who seemed to really be considering Sam's proposition. Finally, and to Sam's honest surprise, Gene Hunt gave a curt nod. “Accepted. Draw yer sword.”

 

Slowly, Sam drew his rapier from its sheath, glancing around. The storm had let up slightly, but the deck still was slick with rain, so keeping his footing would not be easy. By now, a good part of Hunt's crew had gathered in a loose circle around them, silently watching; the rest probably were guarding the remnants of Sam's own complement. To his utter amazement, Sam even spotted a woman among the onlookers, standing close to the railings.

 

Not time to wonder about that, though; Hunt was growing impatient. “ 'ave at me then, laddy!” he barked, slashing the sabre down and then raising its blade up diagonally to his chest.

 

Sam in response raised his own blade, holding it perfectly vertical close to his face for a moment, adopting his preferred stance.

 

Then he suddenly lunged forward, and their duel began.

 

It was a flurry of steel clashing with steel as Sam showered Hunt in blows, determined to gain the upper hand fast. He knew that he didn't have much strength left; when the pirates had initially attacked his ship, Sam had sustained minor injuries which over the course of battle had cost him energy. If the duel drew out for too long, he was sure to lose.

 

As they exchanged blows, Sam briefly wondered why in all blazes he even believed that Hunt would keep his word, but immediately dismissed the thought as he drove his opponent back with a series of well-aimed stabs. Apparently he had surprised the Renegade Admiral with the ferocity of his attacks, but now they were on equal grounds, neither showing a sign of insecurity or weakness. Indeed, as their sword dance drove them this way and that way across the deck, for a moment Sam even forgot all about the situation and felt nothing but a strange exhilaration, an excitement only an intense duel with a sparring partner his equal could elicit.

 

And, in that moment, he saw the same realisation in Hunt's eyes, saw how they flashed, and even noticed how a grin seemed to form on his lips. By then, the crew had started to cheer on their captain, yet even then Sam didn't exactly feel threatened, just spurred on further. A stab, and his rapier connected with his opponent's cheek, leaving a clearly visible cut. He couldn't say if he himself had sustained any further injury; if he had, he didn't feel it. Sam was completely focused on Hunt, and their duel.

 

And yet, he saw it before it happened.

 

Their dance had brought them close to the railings. Water was splashing onto the deck, and as it washed over Sam's boots, his attention inexplicably shifted away from Hunt.

 

He saw the woman again, her curly hair all ruffled by the wind. He also saw that a rope with a hook attached to it had apparently been loosened by the storm from its original spot somewhere on the mast. It was swinging down, towards the woman. The hook was big enough to seriously injure her. She would be thrown off the ship, and then she'd have no chance at all, not with this weather.

 

All of this, Sam realised within the blink of an eye. He saw it with such a clarity that he was wondering why the hell she hadn't long but jumped out of the way to save herself.

 

Sam moved, leapt to the side, deftly dodging a vertical sweep delivered by Hunt. Instead of countering, however, he ran away further, towards the woman, whose eyes widened.

 

“Oi, get back 'ere ye bastard!” Hunt bellowed, but Sam paid him no heed.

 

The next moment, he was by the woman's side, and pushed her out of the way. Immediately he jumped back to face Hunt again, but realised with faint horror that instead of dodging the hook, he was moving _towards_ it – sliding on the sodden wood, to be exact. Sam turned his head, saw a flash of metal, thought “Oh, God.”

 

Then there was a vicious stab, and suddenly Sam was flying, hurting, flying, falling, God it hurt, and another terrible impact, and then there was water everywhere, but swimming hurt, it felt like he was being ripped open, and he had to get back up, but he couldn't, and then there were black shapes approaching, and God he needed to breathe, and something gripped him and he tried to fight it, but suddenly he was so tired, so tired, just close your eyes for a bit, just a bit...

 

Sam breathed in, and oblivion swallowed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wasn't even sure if Tyler really still was on this side. He was breathing, yes, but pale as a corpse, and didn't move one bit in his death-like sleep. Gene would give him three days. Four, tops._

_Gene_

 

For the life of him, Gene Hunt would never be able to properly explain just why he had jumped after that dopey bastard.

 

During their duel, there had been a moment when he had forgotten all about their circumstances and simply enjoyed the fact that he had finally found a man who was his equal in sword fighting. It had been the best feeling he'd had ever since the day he turned his back on the navy.

 

And then Tyler had broken out, inexplicably, and rage had surged through Gene – only to be replayed with shock and horror as the man had tackled Cartwright out of the way, only to be impaled by that triple-cursed hook and thrown right over board. And their duel hadn't even been decided yet.

 

So Gene Hunt had jumped after Admiral Sam Tyler, and saved his sorry life. For the time being at least.

 

As Gene stood by the low table that served as a sickbed, he looked down at the pale man lying on it, and wondered if he would ever wake up again. When he had pulled Tyler up to the surface, they had been surrounded by a startlingly big cloud of blood, which was bound to draw sharks towards their position sooner rather than later. Luckily his crew had reacted quickly and thrown down a rope, and Gene had been able to hold onto it just so. Back on deck, he had gotten a good look at Tyler's wound, and even though he'd never admit it, it had made him feel more than queasy.

 

It had only been thanks to Doc Nelson that Tyler hadn't died of blood loss right then and there. But what help would that be if the lad didn't wake up again? He also must have bumped his head somehow as he'd been catapulted off deck, for there had been a deep gash just behind his ear.

 

Gene turned around abruptly and briskly walked out of the cabin, only to almost bump right into Cartwright, who was carrying a bowl of water.

 

“How is he, Guv?” she asked anxiously, trying to peer past him into the room.

 

Gene grunted. “Dead to the world. Best not get yer 'opes up, lass.”

 

He didn't wait for a reply but strode right past her and out onto the deck. In the distance, he saw the pillar of smoke that marked the remains of Admiral Tyler's ship. They had spared his crew, as promised, and planted them in lifeboats. After that, they had set fire to the navy vessel. Standard procedure, that. Usually, a sight like that filled Gene with grim satisfaction. But as he stood there, he found that his thoughts merely kept returning to the injured, unconscious man in the belly of his ship.

 

Gene heard footsteps, and glanced around to see Ray, his First Mate, approach him.

 

“Guv. What's the next target?”

 

“None fer now, Raymondo. We could all do with a little break. We'll stay on course an' make our way back t'port.”

 

Ray looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded wordlessly and turned to go and relay the orders on to the crew. Gene didn't watch him leave, but instead kept gazing at the distant flicker of flames. He knew what his First Mate was thinking, even though he hadn't said a word about it yet. Gene also knew that probably the rest of his men – Cartwright excluded – thought exactly the same.

 

Admiral Samuel Tyler was a dead weight.

 

Doc Nelson had told him as much; he had only barely been able to stitch Tyler back together. That blasted hook had done enormous damage to the man's upper body, and Gene didn't want to know what sort of Voodoo magic Nelson had channelled to keep the dopey bastard among the living.

 

_Among the living._

 

Gene snorted. He wasn't even sure if Tyler really still was on this side. He was breathing, yes, but pale as a corpse, and didn't move one bit in his death-like sleep. Gene would give him three days. Four, tops. At least Tyler had saved Cartwright from a similar fate. Why had he even done that? What would a navy bastard like him care about some random lass? Unless, good grief, he was one of those bloody hero types.

 

Though then again, Gene himself probably qualified as a “bloody hero”-type as well.

 

A moment later, Gene took that thought and chucked it out into the sea. If Tyler didn't wake up within six days, he'd send him flying right after.

 

 

Seven days had passed.

 

Tyler still was out cold. Cartwright had kept watch over him, upon her own request – lass felt guilty, bless her. If it wasn't for her, Gene would long but have dropped the Admiral into the sea, yes he would.

 

Except deep down, Gene knew that wasn't true. He couldn't bring himself to do it, for whatever blasted reason. And by Davy Jones, things weren't looking good. His crew was loyal to him to the core, but Gene wasn't blind, nor deaf. They were unsettled by Tyler's presence, muttering about bad luck and one more mouth to feed and corpses waking at night and wandering over deck, and Davy Jones taking what rightfully belonged to him. Gene ignored the talk, or shot the men one of his infamous looks to shut their gobs.

 

He himself had grown more silent, and found himself staring down at Tyler's chalky face more than just once a day. One time he thought he'd seen his fingers twitch, but just seconds later he was telling himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him. Apart from him, Doc Nelson paid Tyler regular visits, apparently having developed an odd sympathy for the poor bugger.

 

With a steady wind blowing them towards their port, Gene had little reason to stay by the steering wheel all the time, which was why he was at the bow staring out at the ocean when Cartwright approached him that morning.

 

“Guv,” she started, and he knew from how she spoke that it had taken her a lot of courage to confront him, and that perhaps she wasn't doing it voluntarily. He didn't look at her, knowing that even a glance would be enough to interrupt the lass.

 

“Guv, about Tyler, he...”

 

Cartwright fidgeted. Gene took a gulp from his hip flask.

 

“Y'see, Doc Nelson thought he wouldn't make it, an' then Ray 'n' Chris start talkin' rubbish 'bout throwin' 'im over board anyway, even if he isn't dead yet, an' I told 'em to shut it, it were your orders after all...”

 

The lass trailed off again, and Gene was starting to grow impatient.

 

“Get to the bloody point, Cartwright.”

 

She hesitated, then finally continued, “Point is, I checked on 'im again, make sure the lads leave 'im alone, and when I came in, he... he was awake.”

 

Gene slowly turned his head to look at her.

 

“When was that?”

 

“A... 'bout an hour ago.”

 

There was a silence between them. Gene lifted his chin.

 

“So y'mean to tell me that, _contrary to my orders_ , ye did _not_ come t'me straight away so I could deal with the twonk?”

 

“Yes, guv.” Lass had guts, she did. “'cause see, guv, he... he doesn't remember. 'bout the fight, an' the navy, an'... just, nothin'. Not even 'is name.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seven days, the man opened his eyes.

_Sam_

 

He didn't want to come back.

 

It was wonderfully quiet here, and everything was easy, and nothing mattered. He was floating, just floating.

 

But then.

 

There was a voice. A black voice, mysterious, threatening. Pulling him up, down, away from the blissful nothing. He resisted, or tried to – he didn't want to leave, didn't want to go elsewhere. There was nothing left for him elsewhere. _Let me go, let me sleep, please..._

 

But the voice didn't leave him alone. It rose, spilling over him, enveloping him, and he grew tired of struggling. What was the point of it? The voice continued pulling him away from the light-flooded place, and as it did, he started to... _feel_.

 

And it wasn't nice at all.

 

There was tugging, tightness, he felt terribly constricted. He began to struggle again, but this only resulted in white-hot pain, taking away his breath. He wanted to scream, but couldn't, and it all became a whirl of colours and noises.

 

Then there was nothing.

 

*

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes there was a man's voice, sometimes a woman's, sometimes even the black one, but he never attempted to open his eyes. It seemed like too much of a hassle. All he wanted was to return to that place of light, but as much as he tried, something was blocking his path, catching him whenever he let go to fall into oblivion.

 

Finally, he grew frustrated. There was no way back apparently, so he decided to turn around and walk in the other direction. That was where the pain and noises were, but anything was better than this hopeless battle against the black voice.

 

*

 

After seven days, the man opened his eyes.

 

It took him a while to be able to see anything but strange swirling shapes and flashing lights. As his eyes adjusted, he could slowly make out the ceiling – _Wooden_ , he thought – and something that was moving right at the corner of his vision. He wanted to see what it was, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out how to do that. Panic started to well up inside him.

 

_Head. Have to turn my head._

 

He concentrated. He concentrated hard. So hard that he was developing a dull headache. Or had it been there already, and he had noticed it only now? Either way, the headache actually helped; he finally seemed to have gained some control over his body, and slowly turned his head to the side. At first, his vision was blurry, and all he saw was a shape, moving about.

 

_A person._

 

Apparently they hadn't noticed his being awake yet, for the shape never moved towards him. The man blinked once, twice, trying to get rid of the blur. It helped, if marginally.

 

The figure moved again – he thought he could make out shoulder-long, curly hair – and suddenly, light was shining right into his eyes. He screwed them shut reflexively, then heard a strange sound, followed by a grating sensation in what he managed to identify as his own throat. Then he heard another sound – a gasp. That was what made him realise that what his ears had picked up earlier must have been a groan. His own groan.

 

Footsteps, moving towards him. Seeing through his closed eyelids that the light was very subdued now, he dared to crack one of his eyes open again. Like before, his vision was blurred, but he was fairly sure that he was looking at a face, rather close to his own. He wanted to raise his hand to rub his eyes and finally clear his sight, but such a complicated motion was definitely out of reach for the moment. Hell, he couldn't even _feel_ his hand. The only thing that registered in his mind as he tried to feel his body was a...

 

… he couldn't even describe it properly. But it was unpleasant. _Tight_.

 

“Can you 'ear me?”

 

A voice – _Female_ , and that was weird, and also familiar, but why? - pulled him out if his contemplations and made him focus on the person in front of him once more. Yes, he could hear her very clearly, but when he tried to affirm that audibly, his mouth produced nothing but a hoarse rasping, followed by a cough. A bloody _painful_ cough. This set a few things in motion: One, the face disappeared from his view. Two, he was starting to regain contact to his extremities. Three, he discovered a new type of pain: Burning, searing, shooting down and every place at once.

 

He found himself wishing he hadn't woken up at all.

 

“Don't talk! Hang on...”

 

The voice drifted towards him through a haze of pain, and he wanted to yell at it – at _her_ – that it was a bit late for that, but God – every moment, new spots in his body seemed to flare up with agony. He was so occupied with identifying all the different locations that he didn't even notice how his upper body was being propped up slightly.

 

“'ere, drink this.”

 

Something touched his lips, and as the cough finally subsided he felt something cool trickle down his chin. _Water_. Only now did he realise how thirsty he was, and how much his throat longed for the cool liquid. Reflexes kicked in, and he managed to take a few shallow sips from the waterskin that was being held to his mouth.

 

“There, easy does it...”

 

The skin was pulled away, and he swallowed once more, dryly.

 

“Alright?”

 

He could now feel a hand on his back – a firm, and yet strangely soft touch. It felt nice, nicer than anything his own body had to offer at the moment. He nodded in reply to the woman's question, and as he blinked, he realized that his vision was finally becoming clearer. Another moment, another blink, and he decided that it would be safe now to move his head.

 

A face came into view – a woman's face (he was secretly pleased that his assumption had turned out to be correct), good natured, with lively eyes. Her slightly curled, dark brown hair was loosely tied back with a hair band. She showed him a small smile, looking slightly insecure.

 

“D'ye want some more?”

 

He merely nodded, not yet trusting his voice to obey him. The woman help up the waterskin again, and this time drinking already was so much easier. It almost seemed to him as though with each gulp, strength was returning to his body, and by the time the skin was empty he had had troubles forcing himself to drink slowly.

 

“That's it.” The woman sounded profoundly relieved, and to be honest, he felt the same. He couldn't exactly tell why, but there was something very calming about the fact that he had been able to drink up all the water. Tentatively he moved his tongue, then attempted to clear his throat. The sound it made sounded so alien that he froze for a moment, then swallowed hard. He tried again, and this time it actually did sound like a voice – just, for the life of him he couldn't identify it as his own.

 

He felt a light pat on his back. “You've been asleep for a week, take it easy. God, it's a miracle yer still alive...” The woman trailed off, suddenly looking guilty. “I shouldn't really be sayin' this right after y'wake up, should I. Sorry.” She smiled apologetically, only to continue, “It's just, I'm so relieved! Thought y'wouldn't make it, and I'd never get t'properly thank ya... But enough of that--” now she gently eased him back onto the cot before standing up, “I'll go get the doc t'look at ya, an' then the guv'll want a word too.”

 

She began to step away, but he reached out quickly (and surprised himself with his own agility in the process) and managed to grab a hold of the rim of her blouse.

 

“Wait.” His own croak startled him just as much as her as she turned back around. Just this one word had been enough to make his throat burn, as though he'd gone and swallowed a dagger. And yet, he soldiered on, “Where... h-how...”

 

The woman hesitated. “I really...” She shook her head once, and then seemed to have made up her mind. “You're aboard the _Golden Tina_. The guv fished ye out o' the water after ye...”

 

She left the sentence unfinished. His frown must have thrown her off.

 

“Don't ye remember?”

 

His frown deepened as he racked his brain. He remembered... a voice, the black voice. He remembered not wanting to come back. He remembered...

 

His gaze grew distant as he searched his memories.

 

He remembered....

 

He was starting to feel uneasy.

 

He remembered...

 

No, not uneasy. His chest tightened. _Panicked._

 

He remembered...

 

… _nothing at all._

 

Suddenly the woman's face was up close again, so close, worry written all over it, but as he stared at her his vision blurred, shifted, played tricks on him. He blinked rapidly, desperately attempting to regain control over himself, but the panic was washing over him in waves now, each stronger than the preceding one. Suddenly it was becoming hard to breathe.

 

“Oi, what's wrong?! Is the wound --”

 

The woman was about to reach down and remove his cover, but he grabbed her arms, desperate for at least _something_ to hold onto.

 

“I – I can't --”

 

She stared into his darting eyes, apparently trying to make sense of his stammering. Sweat was beading on his forehead now, but what unsettled him even more was the growing, throbbing pain in his chest.

 

“Can't... can't remember – name –!”

 

He choked out the last word before pain took him over completely, and he curled up into a foetal position, clutching at his abdomen. Tight, so tight, he couldn't breathe, and pain, but what did it matter when he didn't even know _who_ was hurting, _who_ was dying here –

 

Dimly he registered the woman shouting, but soon any sound was drowned out by a steady roaring in his ears.

 

_Who am I?_

 

Another pang of pain sent his mind reeling, and he thought he caught a glimpse of the blissful white place, and he let go.

 

***

“ 'e just, 'e just started to panic, I didn't know what to do...”

 

“Don't worry yerself, m'lady, ya ain't t'blame.”

 

The black voice.

 

“Will 'e be alright, though?”

 

“He woke up and spoke, that'd more than I'd hoped for. He's a strong lad, this one is.”

 

“If y'say so, Doc...”

 

It had called him back again...

 

“Thanks t'ye, m'lady. He needed someone kind lookin' after him, 'specially with Captain Hunt around.”

 

“Hah, hear hear.”

 

That voice, and her. They had pulled him back again. Back to awareness. Back to the fact that he was nameless, a no-one.

 

He groaned, and for a moment the voices were silent. Then –

 

“Sam?”

 

Something within him stirred, but when he tried to grasp it, it was gone and in its place was a headache.

 

“Sam Tyler.”

 

The black voice was calling him again. _Sam Tyler_. Again, this name seemed to touch something within him, but it slipped from his conscious grasp just like a fish would easily wriggle out of a man's hands.

 

“Sam.”

 

_Sam Tyler._ Maybe that was his name. It felt... in place, but also foreign. He felt faintly bitter. _Can't even remember my own name._

 

“ _Sam._ ”

 

Suddenly, the voice had changed. It was commanding, reminded him of something else, something... And gone it was again. Frustrated, he decided to make it simple and follow the unspoken command. He exhaled, and opened his eyes.

 

And flinched slightly.

 

A black face was hovering right above him, the expression scrutinizing. There was no doubt that this was the face the black voice belonged to. So this was the man who had called him back... After a moment, a broad white grin split the face, and suddenly it seemed a lot less mysterious and threatening, had indeed lost most of its magic.

 

“Welcome to the world of living, mon brave.” the man said, withdrawing from his view. He turned his head, and saw that the man had stepped back from the cot, and was now standing next to the woman from before. Both were looking at him somewhat... expectantly, though why they would do that was a mystery to him. As he regarded them wordlessly, the silence stretched uncomfortably, until the black man spoke up again.

 

“Sam Tyler.” He paused for a moment, closely watching him. “That name ring any bells?”

 

_Sam Tyler._ He closed his eyes again for a second, listening. There was a faint tingling in his chest, a feeling of... something. Hesitantly, he nodded.

 

Again, the broad white grin flashed. “Wonderful! It's _your_ name, y'know.”

 

He blinked. _Sam Tyler. Sam. Sam. Tyler. Samuel._

 

A short stutter of his heart, a tiny flash in his mind.

 

“Sam.” he repeated, whispering. Yes, that... that felt right.

 

Again, Sam nodded.

 

The relief both the man and the woman showed was almost tangible in the small room. “D'ye remember anythin' else?” she asked, almost anxiously.

 

Sam frowned, once more attempting to search his memory, but it was like trying to spot something at the bottom of a very deep, and very muddy pool. Technically, he didn't even really _remember_ his name, not consciously. However, at that moment he would gladly take anything, even just this stirring of familiarity, if it just filled a bit of that vast emptiness he felt opening up inside him.

 

Finally, Sam shook his head. “... No. Nothing.” After a brief pause, he added as an afterthought, “Where am I? And who are you?”

 

At this, the two shot each other a glance which immediately made him suspicious, without even being able to tell why. Before he could make more of it, the woman spoke up, “This is Doc Nelson, 'e stitched ye back together. An' I'm Annie, Annie Cartwright. You...” Here she hesitated for a moment, glancing at Nelson again. “... you're aboard a ship. The _Golden Tina._ ” Now she looked at him, as if she was expecting something to happen. Sam, however, merely returned the gaze blankly, and so she went on somewhat hastily, “Y'know, I better go get the guv, 'e'll explain everythin' to ya.”

 

She turned, and that was when there was a flash in Sam's mind – wind, rain, excitement – and then pain, pain, pain.

 

Sam doubled over with a gasp, a sharp spike of agony running right through his entire upped body. Through the roaring in his ears he heard distant voices, and then the black voice – Nelson, he corrected himself – was right by his side, strong hands on his shoulders, muttering something... soothing...

 

Slowly, the pain subsided. After a little while, Sam realised that he'd been holding his breath, and released it with a long sigh. He glanced down himself, and only now noticed that his entire chest and abdomen were tightly bandaged. As Nelson slowly eased him back onto the cot, he felt something tug harshly at the skin beneath the bandages.

 

“... so she wasn't joking when she said you stitched me back together,” he remarked, actually stunned. “What... what 'appened?”

 

Nelson shook his head. “The captain will explain it all, mon brave.”

 

Sam frowned. “Why can't you? You're the doctor...”

 

But Nelson merely gave him a mysterious smile and turned away. Silence filled the cabin as the doctor seemed to be preparing something on a table, a potion perhaps, with Sam staring at his back. But soon his gaze was drawn back to the bandages. They seemed to be fresh, so someone must have changed them recently... Sam's brows knotted with confusion. Why was he being cared for like that? Was he part of the crew? But no, then they would be treating him more kindly; less politely, more personal. So, had he had an accident...?

 

His musings were brutally interrupted by the banging of the cabin door. Startled, Sam turned his head, and his eyes fell on the most captain-looking man he must ever have seen in his life. Tall, long legs, blazing green eyes, inquisitive glare, and a large hat to boot.

 

“Finally decided to grace us with yer presence again, eh?”

 

Sam's eyes had narrowed. He instantly decided he didn't like this man. The latter went on, “An' Cartwright 'ere tells me ye remember nowt, not even yer bloody name!”

 

“Actually, I do,” Sam pointed out, glancing at Annie who gave him a slightly apologetic look.

 

“Oh aye?” The captain's eyes now narrowed as well.

 

“Yes. It's Sam... Sam Tyler.”

 

There was a silence, during which they both regarded each other; waiting, testing.

 

“Nothin' else then?” the man finally said, looking oddly... disappointed.

 

“No,” Sam confirmed, still keeping his guard up.

 

For another long moment, the captain held him in his scrutinizing gaze, before abruptly turning away. “I'm Gene Hunt, captain o' this ship. Found ye floating, clingin' onto driftwood from a shipwreck or summat. We'll drop ye off once we make port again.” He paused and turned back to Sam, and this time his expression was unreadable. “Don't think ye'll just be sittin' on yer arse twiddlin' thumbs though. This ain't charity. Soon as the Doc gives the all clear, ye'll be helpin' on deck, that clear?”

 

Sam's first, and surprisingly strong urge was to protest vehemently, but then he reconsidered. As far as he could see, these people had saved his life; the least he could do was to repay them as far as he could, and ignore this strange, inexplicable dislike for Gene Hunt.

 

He took a deep breath and, remembering what Annie had called him, said, “Yes... guv.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I 'ave no idea why you kept me alive, but I don't believe yer story 'bout pickin' me up from some ship wreck. So –“ a finger jabbed at Gene's chest, “why the hell am I still alive? What's the bloody point?!”

 

_Gene_

 

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

 

There was perfect silence on deck. Even the sea seemed stunned over this bold, and frankly bloody stupid comment. Gene turned – slowly, _very_ slowly – to look at the man the voice belonged to: Sam bloody Tyler. Looking at him nonchalantly, eyes darting away just once, in the first moment. Loopy Lucy, as they'd come to call him behind his back (mostly). Admiral Oblivious.

 

“You what?” Gene knew without even looking at them that the crew had tensed. Everyone on the ship knew who and what Tyler was, with the exception of Tyler himself, and they all were on guard constantly, except maybe for the lass Cartwright and the Doc. Tyler sensed that (which admittedly wasn't hard) and subsequently behaved as though he had a rod up his jacksie. Not the best course of action; it led to a vicious circle. And Gene found himself right in the middle of it; aware of the process, but unable to stop or step away from it.

 

“ 'eadin' that way is a bad idea,” Tyler repeated, straightening his back and raising his chin ever so slightly. Gene saw his Adam's apple bob down and up once. The sod was well aware of the tension, but he couldn't, or didn't want to back down now.

 

“An' 'oo exactly made ya captain o' this vessel?” Gene sounded more agitated than he wanted to, he realized with dismay. Curse the cheeky bastard. What siren had whispered into his ear to convince him that keeping Tyler alive was the right thing to do? He must have been delirious.

 

“The wind's picked up, “Tyler said, entirely ignoring Gene's rhetoric question, “if we turn now we'll find ourselves in tricky waters with a storm 'owlin' round our ears. We should sit it out 'ere.”

 

“Says the man 'oo barely remember 'is own name. Should I trust 'is judgement, I wonder?” Gene retorted, knowing full well that this one would hit home. And it did. Tyler flinched visibly, while Ray snorted a short laugh, full of contempt. Carling had been especially horrified at the prospect of having the amnesiac admiral aboard, but of course he hadn't dared to openly object his guv's orders. He never did. They all had obeyed Gene when he had told them to treat Tyler like any normal man, and not like the marine officer any of them would like to walk the plank. And his crew were doing a marvellous job, he had to admit.

 

“I looked at some charts a while ago, “Tyler now said defensively. The twat knew he had lost this one, but wasn't man enough to admit it. “It made me remember. A bit. 'bout...sailin'.” Finally he broke eye contact to frown down at the tiles. His gaze was growing distant, and a small alarm bell went off in Gene's head.

 

“Well then 'ow about y'go starin' at Cartwright some, it may 'elp ye remember 'ow t'act like a man and not like some old fisherman's wife!”

 

Laughter sounded over the deck as Tyler's face grew red, right up to the tips of his ears. He'd been avoiding Cartwright instinctively as soon as his health had allowed him to get up and move about – which in fact had been earlier than Gene would have thought. The man was made of tougher stuff than his scrawny frame suggested, apparently. In any case - contrary to what Gene had feared (or hoped?), even though the lass had been fussing over Tyler all the time, seeing her face constantly had not triggered any of his memories to return. After his initial relief, however, Gene had begun to wonder. Practically everything on the ship should be reminding Tyler of his past, so why wasn't he reacting at bleeding all? It was ruddy strange to treat him as though they'd never met before, as though... as though their duel had never happened. Gene found himself thinking back to it more often than was good for him, remembering their dance, the rush of excitement. Tyler had actually fought back with all his might.

 

As the man now crossed his arms and looked away, struggling to regain his composure, Gene realized that he still was fighting back, in his own, limited way. And Gene really wasn't sure what to make of that.

 

*

 

A little while later, the crew busily bustling all over the deck to keep the ship on course, Gene found Tyler at the stern, staring at the piece of sail cloth he was supposed to mend. Doc Nelson had given strict orders that any task involving any sort of lifting or other physical strain was absolutely out of bounds for his patient, lest the wound open up again. That was just as well; Gene didn't want Tyler anywhere near the important parts of the ship in any case, so he'd let him sweep the decks (much to his own and everyone else's amusement), and occasionally sent him down to the caboose to help out Gwen and Phyllis.

 

Tyler had not yet noticed Gene's presence – his head was slightly bowed, and when Gene came closer and leaned forward he saw that his eyes were closed and his entire face contorted in... concentration? Pain? Gene couldn't tell.

 

“Sleepin' on the job?” he intoned, more loudly than strictly necessary. “I've sent men o'er the plank fer less.”

 

Tyler's head snapped up suddenly and he flinched, and for a moment Gene felt sorry for the sod. It was just a small, a positively tiny moment though.

 

“I almost had it!” The smaller man snarled, glaring up at him.

 

“What, 'ow ter wield needle an' yarn? Give over, can't be so complicated if birds can do it in their sleep.”

 

In an instant Tyler was on his feet, his work tools cluttering down onto the floor. “My memories! So bloody close...” His fingers curled into fists, and Gene found himself wishing that Tyler would go and start a fight. Being injured was one thing, but mutiny was an entirely different matter. It would give him the perfect reason to at least lock Tyler away until they reached port.. However, the man maintained self control, damn him. His stance still rigid, Tyler remained where he was, shooting daggers from his eyes at Gene.

 

“I may not remember 'oo or what I am, but I'm not stupid, Hunt.” Gene raised his eyebrows, but Tyler rattled on before he could say anything. “Till now nobody told me what kind o' ship this is, but it's bleedin' obvious. Yer no bloody Samaritans, an' a far cry from a tradin' vessel. Yer _pirates_.” He spat the word as though it was the filthiest thing on earth. “I 'ave no idea why you kept me alive, but I don't believe yer story 'bout pickin' me up from some ship wreck. So –“ a finger jabbed at Gene's chest, “why the _hell_ am I still alive? What's the _bloody point?!_ ”

 

The last two shouted words were still ringing in Gene's ears when Tyler doubled over with a gasp, clutching at the jagged scar running across his chest. He went down on one knee, struggling to breathe. Gene watched him from above, unmoving.

 

What was the bloody point indeed?

 

“I don't waste human lives, Tyler.” he said, ignoring that the man still was on his knees, gasping for breath. “There was no reason for ye t'die that day. But – “ and here he swept down suddenly, fast, grabbing the man by the lapels of his shirt and dragging him up, “no matter what kinda ship this be, it's still _my_ ship. I'm the captain, an' so long as yer aboard, ye'll bloody well follow me orders. Don't like it, yer free to leave.” Gene let go, and Tyler stumbled backwards, but thankfully remained on his feet.

  
“...leave... leave where? Where else could I go?” the man croaked, looking bitter and insecure at the same time.

 

Gene spread his arms. “Jump. 'm sure Davy Jones got enough room in 'is locker, even fer a big-'eaded ponce like you.”

 

That rendered Tyler speechless, much to Gene's satisfaction. Without a further word, he stepped past the bewildered man. There was more important business to attend. For example the fact that there was a ruddy black wall of storm clouds at 9 o'clock which seemed to completely have slipped his crew's notice. Violently shoving Tyler out of his mind, Gene sucked in breath and bellowed, “Strike the sails! Looks like we're in fer a bloody big belch of ol' Poseidon. Everyone to their posts, and Skelton, stay the 'ell away from the riggin'. I want a complete crew assembled at the end of this, _capiche_?” 

 

“Aye aye Guv!”

 

“Then mush!”

 

Striding towards the wheel, Gene cast another glance at the approaching storm. Unbidden, Tyler's words sounded in his mind: _I don't think that's a good idea._ Gene growled indignantly. _We'll see 'bout that, Tyler._ There was a faint rumble of thunder, but whose words it emphasized, he couldn't tell.

 

*

 

“I think this was a bad idea!” Chris shouted at no-one in particular, before a wave crashing down on deck literally drowned out his words. Just as well; Gene would have smacked him in the gob otherwise. He already knew their situation had gone pear-shaped without some smart-aleck pointing it out for him. All men were on deck, working efficiently (more or less) to keep the _Tina_ from turning turtle. It was one hell of a storm, Gene had to admit, but by Davy Jones they _were_ going to get through it in one piece. He was clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles stood out white, but he couldn't even feel his fingers, numb from the icy rain as they were. Not that he cared.

 

Crash, another wave, yelling. Gene peered through the rain, saw how Ray gripped Chris' arms and saved him from being washed over board. He also saw Vince frantically trying to keep the rigging from being tangled beyond hope, and Pat jumping out of the way barely in time to dodge a cannon that had broken loose from its ropes and was now crashing across the deck.

 

Gene's jaw clenched. 

 

“ _I don't think that's a good idea.”_ Sod off, Tyler. I'll be damned if that poor excuse of a breeze brings down the Gene Genie.

 

Every muscle in his body taut, he held against the brute force of the waves. It seemed like they had been in the heart of this storm for an eternity, though in reality it couldn't have been more than half an hour. When another wave shook the ship and sent most of his crew sprawling and scrambling for something to hold onto, Gene roared, “Remain at yer posts ye divs! We've been through worse than this!” He received no reply, nor had he expected any. Again the wheel under his fingers sought to shift, but he wouldn't let it happen. Not now. Wait a bit longer... just a bit...

 

And then he suddenly let go, only to grab the wheel once more, and the _Tina_ shifted, taking advantage of an oncoming wave. And just like that, the storm seemed to calm down, but it was only a small moment of respite before the next stroke of lightning, and nearly at the same time the next clap of thunder turned the sea into a raging inferno once more.

 

Once again Gene leaned against the force of the ocean tugging at the rudder, but the rain had turned the floor under his feet slippery and he nearly lost his footing. Cursing, he managed to stay upright, and that was when suddenly Cartwright's brightly coloured headband came into view.

 

“Guv!” she yelled, her voice barely audible over the howling storm. “There's... tryin'... close... need--!”

 

“Speak up!” Gene hollered back, fighting with the wheel, “Can't 'ear a ruddy thing!”

 

The lass stumbled closer, nearly slipping several times, until they were just a few inches apart. “Leak, in the hull, we're tryin' to close it but it's no use, 's 'jus' me 'n' the Doc 'n' Tyler, we need 'elp!”

 

Gene swore deftly. One glance at the deck showed him that everyone was either too occupied with their tasks, or with not being blown or washed off the ship.

 

“Stick the bloody admiral into the bleedin' 'ole then, ye'll manage!” he shouted back, meaning it as an encouragement (probably). Clearly that wasn't what Cartwright had hoped for – he saw the look of helplessness, mixed with anger as she withdrew – but bloody hell, what was he supposed to do?!

 

Another flash of lightning made Gene blink, and then there was a heavy raindrop in his eyes, and then another, and Gene blinked again, squinted, had to blink yet again, tried to keep his eyes open, but it was no use. The storm seemed intent on rendering him blind, and it was bloody well succeeding. Gene lifted a hand to his face to rub the water out of his eyes and shield them somewhat, but no sooner that he let go of the wheel, he felt the crushing force of the ocean against the rudder, and by extension on his one arm. With a grunt he tried to hold against it, but then there was a sudden jolt and Gene was pulled down brutally before he was able to let go of the wheel. But the damage had been done, his balance was lost, and he found himself stumbling sideways, keeling over, and then he slid across the tiles a good few feet before his back painfully connected with something – the railings, he realized. His ears were ringing with shouts and yells and roaring, though he could make out no specific words. The wheel, the bloody wheel, have to get back to it. Davy Jones be damned, this wasn't the first storm he had experienced at sea, and it bloody well would not be his last!

 

Gene pulled himself upright, or tried to; the attempt failed as suddenly the ship lurched to the side, and then he saw the wheel as he peered through the rain, saw it _above_ him – the sheep was leaning to the side, keeling over, and there was shouting, screams, a big black shape at the edge of his vision, and suddenly his heart was in his throat.

 

The main sail had uncoiled.

 

Frantically, Gene attempted to get back up to his feet. “The sail! Ye sorry rascals _DESTROY THE SAIL!”_

 

But no-one was in sight, no one appeared to have heard him, or no one dared to follow his command; the crew was panicking, he saw them holding onto the railings or whatever they could grab, holding on for their dear lives. Above them all the gale was pulling brutally at the sail, it looked as though it was going to burst any second now, but Gene knew it wouldn't, not unless it was damaged; and Gene also knew that something as small as a bullet hole would bloody well suffice, if only they would remember and get their arses in gear, if only he could get up and aim his own gun, but if he let go of the railings now he would be shark fodder for sure. Still he fumbled for his weapon, he needed to do _something_ , anything at all – and out of nowhere came a chunk of wood hurtling towards him, the impact knocking him back, his head colliding with the railings.

 

He must have been unconscious just a few seconds, but when Gene came round again he had already missed the loud ripping sound and the shouted command. What he saw now through bleary eyes were his men clambering towards the raised side of the ship to shift its weight, while a few others shoved the cannons which had broken free before into the sea. Already he felt the floor tilt back to a more or less horizontal position, which allowed him to finally pull himself up, holding onto the railings for support. The haze on Gene's vision slowly lifted as he blinked up at the torn sail. It had not been a bullet, but something much larger that had done the necessary damage, but with the rain still falling steadily it was impossible to make out any details. Then Gene noticed that the ship was now riding the currents on a steady course, and his eyes snapped over to the abandoned wheel.

 

Only it wasn't abandoned.

 

He couldn't make out his face, but Tyler's posture was tense, rigid as he stood with his feet wide apart, to steady himself against the force of the waves. Presently, he slowly coaxed the ship into a star-side turn, using his entire weight to move the wheel smoothly.

 

Gene pushed himself away from the railings and slowly made his way over to the other man. His head was throbbing suspiciously and he could taste blood in his mouth, but Gene couldn't have cared less. When he approached Tyler he saw how taut the muscles in his body were, their outlines standing out starkly on his trembling arms. The admiral was definitely made of tougher stuff than his lean frame suggested, he once more reluctantly had to admit to himself.

 

Gene reached out and placed a hand on Tyler's shoulder, making the man flinch violently. When he spun around, Gene motioned with his head for him to stand aside. _My turn again._

 

For a moment, Tyler simply stared back, a bewildered look on his face, his eyes strangely glassy. But then he blinked, and stepped (or stumbled, more like) to the side, letting Gene take over. As his hands closed around the wheel's handles, all his thoughts focused on the task at hand, namely to ride out the last moments of the weakening storm. Everything else – including the silent man who now staggered off to find something to hold on to – would be dealt with later.

 

*

 

The world itself seemed to be caught in a long exhalation, entirely spent. The calm that followed the storm was almost eerie. As Gene inspected the extent of damage done to the main sail, hardly a word was spoken on deck. Some men still lay where the storm had left them, though thankfully no one had gone over board, and most injuries were more or less harmless, just a few scratches and bumps. The leak in the hull had been taken care of by now, and one by one the crew was turning to their designated tasks in the aftermath of a storm like this one. Gene had even allowed Nelson to bandage the wound on his head.

 

As it were, Gene had to conclude that it had been a bloody huge amount of luck which had helped them survive the storm. Had the sail not been destroyed the moment they had, the ship would have turned turtle, and that would have been the end of the Renegade Admiral Gene Hunt and his valiant crew.

 

Gene turned around and walked away from the torn sail, leaving his men to do the necessary repairing. It was time to confront Tyler.

 

He found the man where he had left him: at the stern, sitting on the floor with his back against the railings. His eyes were closed, but Gene was sure that he was not asleep. And indeed, when he walked up to him, Tyler's eyes snapped open and focused on him. For a long moment, the two men regarded each other silently. Then Tyler stirred, and slowly worked himself up into a half-standing position, still heavily leaning on the railings to support his weight. One hand was hovering protectively over his abdomen. Figures, the wound must be giving him troubles, what with the exertion before.

 

It was Tyler who broke the silence, his voice bitter as always. “In case you still want me to jump, I'll 'ave to disappoint you... I don't belong 'ere, but I intend to find my rightful place, wherever that may be. Ye'll be rid of me soon as we hit land.”

 

Gene continued to observe him without saying a word. Something about Tyler's tone made him wonder if the man was starting to remember who he was. Regardless – Gene extended his hand and offered it to him, to help him stand upright like a proper man should.

 

“Cartwright told me what ye did. Threw a bloody cannon ball with a make-shift sling... could've been me own idea, that.”

 

Tyler's eyes narrowed, but in the end he took Gene's hand and let himself be pulled up, swaying slightly where he stood.

 

“Where'd ye learn t'navigate a ship?”

 

The man merely shrugged. “Don't remember,” he replied sullenly.

 

The words remained floating between them until Gene nodded curtly. “Well done, Tyler.”

 

It took him a moment to react, but then Tyler snorted lightly and looked away, withdrawing his hand from Gene's grip.

 

“For a loopy Lucy such as yerself,” Gene added, and the smaller man's gaze snapped back sharply, but when he saw Gene's expression a small smile showed on his usually tense face, even reaching his eyes for a moment. “Now go an' let Nelson 'ave a look at ye. Ye've got no right to die aboard this vessel.”

 

“...Aye aye, guv.”

 

As Tyler limped past him, Gene found himself thinking that he definitely could get used to the oblivious admiral calling him “guv”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He knows._ The realization hit Sam like a slap. _He knows who I am._

_Sam_

 

After the big storm, a lot more than just the clouds had cleared up. Sam couldn't quite remember everything that had happened that day – he had been driven purely by adrenaline and the instinct to do the right thing (whatever that was), and afterwards Nelson had had to restitch part of the wound across his upper body. On that matter, he really had no clue how he had managed to throw that cannon ball. Annie informed him that apparently he had wrapped it in a large piece of some sort of strong cloth, and then started spinning round and round, until he suddenly let go and sent the missile on its way. It had worked, tearing a hole into the sail, big enough so that the storm could further rip it apart, and thus saved all their lives.

 

From that moment on, the crew's attitude towards Sam had changed. Of course, that didn't mean that now they worshipped him – not at all, Sam thought sourly whenever he caught someone staring at him, or heard muttered remarks about “Loopy Lucy”. However... there was a certain grudging respect in the way they treated him. He felt somewhat more comfortable now, working on deck. Hunt had decided that he was ready to take on tasks that required more exertion, and for that Sam was thankful. Not that he enjoyed his stay on board the Golden Tina; how could he, after finding out it was a pirate ship? Nevertheless, these people had saved his life. There were many things Sam could say about Gene Hunt, and hardly any of it would be positive, but the man was no liar. Liars behaved differently. And were less blunt.

 

“Tyler, get yer skinny arse in 'ere, pronto.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and put down the hammer and nails he had used to mend one of the last holes the storm had left in the floor. Chris would have to finish without him, it seemed.

 

“Ye'll manage,” Sam said with a glance back, and Chris nodded optimistically, before hitting his own thumb with the hammer. By then Sam, had already walked off a few paces, and winced half sympathetically, half exasperated at the pained wail and barely restrained curses behind him.

 

He made his way up to the cabin, where Hunt was already waiting for him. “You called.”

 

“I did indeed, Captain Obvious.” Without waiting for a reply, Hunt ushered him over to the desk occupied with a number of sea charts. Resting his hands on one of them, the captain gazed at Sam for a moment, as if he was sizing him up. Sam straightened his back, raising his chin ever so slightly. Whenever he was alone with Hunt – which thankfully didn't happen too often – he constantly felt the need to defend himself. From what, he couldn't tell. He still hadn't regained his memories; however, he had managed to make some things out.

 

“Yer familiar with charts.” Hunt stated.

 

“Aye.” That was one thing. Sam knew he had to be some sort of sailor. It was the only explanation to the fact that working on the ship came so natural to him. And how else would he have been able to steer the ship through the storm that day? So he definitely hadn't been just a passenger on the wrecked vessel.

 

“Then 'ave a look at this an' tell me what ye see.” Placing a finger on the parchment, Hunt added, “This is our current position.”

 

Sam slowly stepped closer and leaned in a bit, taking in the chart. What was the pirate playing at?

 

“... we're close to a reef.”

 

Hunt nodded. “Now, if ye wanted ter chase someone an' get 'em trapped in there, how'd ye do that?”

 

Sam blinked, momentarily lost for words. Hunt still was looking at him, utterly serious.

 

“... you're jokin'.”

 

“Do I look like I'm jokin'?”

 

Sam had to admit that he didn't. He shook his head, looking down at the chart again. “It's impossible.”

 

“Oh c'mon Sammy-boy, use yer imagination.”

 

“Imagi--” Anger started to bubble up in his chest. “This isn't a game! You'd endanger everyone aboard this vessel! You can't--”

 

“Ye tryin' ter question me authority?” Hunt interjected, his voice dangerously low. “Who'd ye think ye are?”

 

“I'm...!” Sam had started that sentence confidently, his own voice holding just as much authority as Hunt's... but then his mind suddenly went blank. He could feel his heart thumping against his ribcage, but no matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't figure out what he had been about to say. _So close._

 

As his gaze focused again, Sam realized that Hunt was observing him closely. His eyes were wary, the look guarded, almost... expectant.

 

_He knows._ The realization hit Sam like a slap. _He knows who I am._

 

Before Sam could open his mouth, Hunt looked down at the chart again and jutted his finger at a point on a nearby coast. “We'll go t'port 'ere, gotta get the Tina fixed up properly. An' we'll wait fer someone t'turn up there.”

 

“Who?” Sam asked somewhat numbly, his mind still reeling.

 

“Old friend o' mine.” Had he been about to say “yours” there? “Stephen Warren.”

 

Sam raised his head in surprise. “The merchant?”

 

In response, Hunt nodded and raised his eyebrows at the same time. “Y' remember 'im?”

 

_Why “remember”?_ “I... yes. He's... renowned. Got connections everywhere... big trading empire. Ah...” Sam screwed his eyes shut for a moment. He could feel a headache developing. “He's... respected. Among the navy.” He heard Hunt snort.

 

“Respected, eh. Well, 'e's about ter lose 'is main fleet.”

 

Sam's eyes flew open again. “You plan to attack 'im?”

 

The other man gave a curt nod and pointed at the reef again. “If we play it right, we can force 'em into that maze an' sink the ship without raisin' a finger ourselves. The Tina is small an' fast, won't be no problem for 'er.”

 

Sam stared at him for a few seconds. “You really plan to do this.”

 

“O' course.”

 

There was the rage again. “Why the hell are you askin' me then?! What does it matter what I think, I'm just some nobody stuck on this ship, I'm not even part of the bloody crew! Why would you even _care_?!”

 

Hunt regarded him silently, before saying, “Ye know yer charts.”

 

“Oh, and you think I'd 'elp you assault innocent people, do you!” Sam was breathing hard, trying to keep his temper under control. “Well, I'll 'ave to disappoint you, 'cause I'm not interested in becomin' a pirate!” _Never a pirate. Never._ He exhaled through his nose, fighting to regain his composure. “Look, I _am_ grateful you saved my life, if that's what you did, I really am.” Hunt's gaze remained unreadable as Sam continued, “As long as I'm 'ere, I'll try to make myself useful. But don't expect me to become what you are.”

 

“I could force ye. Or throw ye over board.”

 

Their gazes locked for a long moment. Then Sam said, “You're not that cruel. Y' said you don't waste human lives. You could've got rid o' me a long time ago, if that's what you wanted.”

 

Silence fell again. After what felt like an eternity, Hunt nodded. “Get back to work. Soon as we hit port, yer free to go.”

 

*

 

Sam sneezed, then pulled the rough blanket tighter around himself. The night was dark – new moon – and cold. He cursed himself for forgetting to bring some rum with him up to the crow's nest. His shift had only just started and he was shivering already... It would be a long night...

 

“Sam!”

 

Or not.

 

Sam knelt and peered down to see who it was, climbing up the mast – though he had recognized the voice straight away, of course he had.

 

“Ahoy, Annie!”

 

Even through the dark, he could see her smile up at him, and he found himself returning that smile. She was the one person on board who seemed to regard him with genuine friendliness. Well, her and the medic, Nelson. As Sam helped her up into the crow's nest, he again wondered how such a sweet woman could ever have ended up as a pirate, of all things.

 

“You forgot somethin' down there,” Annie said when she was sitting comfortably on the floor, Sam's blanket wrapped around her. Reaching for the belt of her trousers, she produced a flask and held it up.

 

“Oh! Annie, you're a lifesaver.” Sam took the flask gratefully, immediately taking a swig from it.

 

“Likewise!” Annie laughed, then seemed to freeze for a moment.

 

Sam looked up. “What?”

 

“Well, y'kow, the other day.” She was smiling again now, not missing a beat. “We would all 'ave drowned, or worse.”

 

“Worse?” Sam echoed, half laughing with disbelief. “What could be worse than dying?”

 

Annie cocked her head slightly. “Endin' up in Davy Jones' Locker, of course.”

 

Sam laughed again, until he realized Annie wasn't laughing along with him.

 

“Hang on, you actually believe all those... stories?” He couldn't help but to gape at her.

 

Annie shrugged. “It's not a matter of believin'. Strange things 'appen, an' it's an explanation at least.”

 

“Yes, but...” Sam trailed off, not even knowing what he wanted to say. Now it was Annie's turn to chuckle.

 

“Figures you'd be one of 'em scientific types.”

 

And again Sam listened up. He couldn't even say why, but something about her tone and choice of words simply screamed at him to look further into the matter.

 

“Why would you say that?”

 

“Well, it's obvious innit?” Annie still was smiling, and suddenly Sam felt ashamed for trying to interrogate her like that. He lowered his gaze.

 

“I'm sorry. It's just...” He sighed, glancing up at the sky. “... this may sound odd, but... I think Hunt might know who I am.”

 

“The guv?”

 

Sam avoided to look at her this time.

  
“Yes. I mean, I don't 'ave any evidence, but, the way 'e talks sometimes... I don't know. Sometimes it seems like... like 'e expects me to act, or react, a certain way. But evidently I don't.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This doesn't make much sense, does it.”

 

Annie said nothing, so he went on, “I don't understand 'im, at all. If he knows who I am, who I was before the... the _accident_ , then why doesn't 'e tell me? Is it to protect me, and if so, what from? And why would 'e even want to do that in the first place?” Now that he had started, he couldn't stop the flow of words. “I want to know what 'appened to me, Annie, and to think that Hunt, or _all_ of you might know and aren't tellin' me – it's, I mean -”

 

He broke off when he felt a hand on his arm.

 

“Sam.” Annie sounded sympathetic but also... helpless. “No one 'ere is tryin' to harm ye, ye've got t' believe me.”

 

Sam swallowed hard. “So you _do_ know. You're not denyin' it.” He cursed his voice for nearly breaking up.

 

The silence that followed was almost too much for him. He wished, desperately wished for Annie to laugh again and tell him he was being loopy. But she didn't. A minute passed, Sam looking at her intently, pleadingly, but in the end she pulled back her hand, brushed off the blanket and crawled over to the hole to climb back down. Sam opened his mouth, but no words would come to him.

 

“I'm sorry, Sam.”

 

And gone she was, leaving Sam to deal with the turmoil in his mind.


End file.
